


a nose in her affairs

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Courtship, F/M, Fluff, Idiots in Love, Jealousy, Lighthearted, Unresolved Sexual Tension, dumbass behaviour all round, ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 13:04:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20408209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: Bronn wants to know if it’s cool to put the moves on a certain tall lady knight.Well, of course it is. Why wouldn’t it be? Who could find that objectionable?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written 14 August 2019 apparently although i certainly have no memory of this event.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 14 August 2019 apparently although i certainly have no memory of this event.

“Here’s the thing,” says Bronn.

“Hmm.”

“That knight of yours is a lot of woman.”

“She’s not my knight, we are not fucking, and she’s not a whore.” Automatic. Easy. It comes out like he says it five times a day, which ... he does not. Has he ever actually defended Brienne’s honor before now?

“Oh good,” says Bronn. “I was worried you might have some interest. Some claim.”

“Not at all,” says Jaime, thinking only _Did I really never? Even at Harrenhall?_

He manages to sleep after remembering a satisfying left hook to Red Connington — and wakes up an hour later, thinking _Did I just tell Bronn he could court her?_

Not that it is Jaime’s business _who_ courts Brienne, or who she finally decides to fuck. He is her fellow-knight, and her friend — maybe — but that doesn’t give him free pass to go putting his nose in her affairs.

(Jaime thinks, somewhat wistful, of how very much he would enjoy having his nose in her _affairs_. Also his mouth, and tongue, and maybe a finger or two? And of course all this would be only a prelude to the main event.)

(Not that he cares.)

“Are you an idiot,” says his beloved little brother, “or just bent on self-sabotage?”

“You’re going to need to be more specific,” says Jaime.

They’re drinking in Tyrion’s quarters — _plural_. Gods only know why he has more personal space than anyone else was given; Jaime pointed out that, logically speaking, Tyrion should have less.

“The gods do work in mysterious ways. I myself have often thought your face is wasted, since it gave you the joy of tumbling nearly any woman you damn well wanted and yet you spent your time chasing after our sweet sister.”

“Not any more,” says Jaime, grim.

“No,” agrees Tyrion. “You’ve gone after an even more hopeless cause. When you joined the Kingsguard I could at least trust there was a noble, albeit misguided reason for your nonsense. But this—”

“Are you approaching a point?” says Jaime. “Or should I send for more wine?”

“More wine, of course. But is my point not obvious? Why do you send that lech Bronn sniffing after a woman whom _you_ want to bed?”

“I do not want to bed Brienne.”

“_Brienne_, he says. Not _ser Brienne,_ even though he knighted her. Not _lady Brienne,_ although—”

“She cleaned my arse when they took my hand. I think that moves us past courtesy titles.”

Tyrion pauses mid-drink. “Good try,” he said. “But she was _lady Brienne_ until you knighted her — and yes, yes, she deserves knighting if anyone does, I’m not arguing that. The fact is that you did not _change_ her honorific; you dropped it.”

“There had better be wine left for me in that pitcher,” says Jaime. “I’ll need at least another cup to bear with your nonsense.”

It would be easy to stop this. _Bronn, I want her._

Or even to Brienne: _His courtship is a mistake. Take me on instead._

_Let me take you._

Instead he watches as Bronn sits next to the woman that _Jaime_ wants to sit next to — touch the arm _he_ wants to touch — as he kisses her —

Jaime stands up. Remembers himself. Sits down. Focuses on his food.

When Bronn finally passes by — alone — he gives Jaime a conspititorial wink.

Jaime fucking well hates him.

Bronn treats her well. Even Jaime admits that. And it’s good, too, the way that Brienne listens to him and speaks to him and (gods help her, gods help them all) sometimes she even smiles at that greasy, immoral fuck.

“She isn’t supposed to smile at anyone but me,” he tells Tyrion. “How can she do this?”

“She hasn’t smiled at you anytime lately, has she?”

Jaime moans and slumps down in his chair.

Tyrion gestures at the pitcher. “Have another drink.”

Jaime does, unhappily. “This is the worst feeling in the world.”

“I know a whorehouse where there is a woman who can sit on her own face. Guaranteed to put a smile on yours. And she’ll even ride your cock if you like. She is really very accommodating. Where is your smile? Where is your sense of adventure? What could be wrong with a woman like that?”

“That woman isn’t Brienne.”

“True enough. There is only one Brienne, and she has likely never worked at a whorehouse.”

Jaime eyes his little brother. “Are you calling her ugly?”

“I’m only suggesting that our tastes differ. As they usually do. I don’t much like blondes, and you can’t seem to stay away from them.”

“Do you suppose she’s fucking Bronn?”

“If she isn’t, it’s not because he turned her down. Oh, come on, Jaime. Let’s go lose our memories in the flesh of beautiful women. My treat.”

Jaime, quite intoxicated, finds himself pounding on her door of a night.

Brienne opens it with bleary eyes. “You.”

“Were you expecting someone else? Someone ... someone ... smart-ass?”

“You’re as much of a smartass as I can take. Are you drunk?”

“I was with Tyrion. He told me ...”

“Sit down.”

“No. Not that. He didn’t say that. He told me to fuck people.”

“Jaime. Do you remember where your rooms are?”

“In the White Tower. Yes.”

“I mean your rooms here, in Winterfell.”

“I prefer Casterly Rock. Even Lannisport, though Tyrion is right about it smelling of fish and whores. I was Lord Commander, you know? And _some_ of it might have been based on merit. My father was so angry. Called it a waste. He could say the harshest things and never raise his voice. You would have hated him. Of course he’s dead now so I don’t suppose it matters very much what I do, but I still find myself thinking _What would father say.”_

“Of course it _matters_. Jaime, your arm’s all swollen around where your hand attaches.”

“I can’t adjust it well on my own. Those are my trousers, Brienne of Tarth. You’re removing my tousers. Anyone would think you were interested in some shal — salacips — that you wanted to fuck.”

“No one will know. Lift your arms up, so I can get this tunic off.”

“Tyrion — are you coming to bed, too? I won’t go to bed unless you come to bed. Tyrion said I should fuck you. Bree, come.”

“Are you going to keep talking all night?”

“No. I’ve already stopped. I’m silent as a mouse. Brienne, _don’t_ marry that Bronn. He doesn’t love you enough. No one else loves you enough to deserve you ...”

“Sleep, ser Jaime”

— and he falls asleep right next to her, mouth open a little as if ready to speak.

When he wakes — with a pounding head and an equally-rhythmic sense of innate failure — he is alone. Someone (Brienne) had neatly folded his clothes and laid them at the foot of the bed; someone (presumably also Brienne) had brought up food. Breakfast.

He stares at it. Porridge and an apple and water. Always the ascetic, his Brienne. Never given to reckless acts of need and stupidity, like — for example — showing up drunk at her erstwhile lover’s door, begging for admittance.

Or maybe she had. She certainly wasn’t here.

Brienne — _his_ Brienne — being touched by that fucking louse-ridden, over-confident, smart-assed sell-sword Bronn.

How dare Tyrion enjoy Bronn’s company.

Jaime runs his hand through his hair; he’s barely controlling his urge to tear it all out. Because Tyrion likes very few people, and Jaime is chief among them, and that means he sees some similiarity between them, and that means ...

“Fuck fuck fuck,” he says. _Fuck_.

He dresses fast, puts the apple in his mouth like a trussed pig, and actually runs to the practice yards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “salacious” is the word Jaime is trying to say.


	2. Chapter 2

Predictably enough, Bronn is there in the practice yard, having his sell-sword ass whooped by the knightliest knight who ever breathed.

Jaime manages to slow down his run to a reasonable (and affected) stroll; he even removes the apple and eats it as he walks. It’s gone mealy. 

He takes a seat on the wall and wishes he had the porridge instead.

“Jaime!” says Bronn, in surprise or greeting.

Brienne starts, drops her guard, and ends up nearly taking a sword in the side. She pushes it (and Bronn) away with her own blade and goes over to glower at Jaime.

“Good morning,” he says, trying to be pleasant while his stomach rebels. Those aren’t blunt practice blades, they’re fighting with _true swords,_ Brienne could have been injured or killed, how dare she risk her life like this —

“Why are you here?”

“I’d hoped for some practice of my own.”

“She’s not your partner,” says Bronn, with his usual annoying affability. “You gave it up, remember?”

“I never agreed to give up swordplay.”

Bronn snorts. “Few men would. But you’re not doing well at it lately, are you? From what I’ve heard.”

“Practice. I’m out of practice.”

Bronn seems about to speak — and shrugs instead.

Jaime eyes Brienne. She’s sitting on the wall herself now, a fair distance from him. Her sword — _Oathkeeper_, bless the girl — is loose against the wall.

Unlike her not to replace it in the scabbard at once. And she’s rubbing at a cut on her hand: that’s not normal, either.

“Are you hurt?” he says.

“No,” she says.

“Ser?” says Bronn.

Jaime looks up: but Bronn is talking to _ser_ Brienne.

And he’s touching, too, which is bad enough (since when has Brienne been comfortable being touched?) but worse, these touches look _intimate_. 

Bronn leans in to say something low in her ear and Brienne smiles, broad and bright. She looks ... happy? How fucking dare she.

He says something else, still too low for to hear, and Brienne laughs aloud. 

Bronn kisses her, that greedy bastard. Right there on her cheek like he has the right to do it. And Brienne doesn’t punch him or stab him or jump away hissing like an angry goose bent on revenge, all of which Jaime vaguely expects her to do; she only smiles.

“Shall we continue this another day, ser?” says Bronn. He’s strapping his sword to his waist properly, making neat work of it. For all his wretched reprehensible behavior, he’s a damned good ... swordsman.

“I’ll bring the coins,” says Brienne, “so we can bet properly.” 

Humph.

Jaime waits for Bronn to disappear up the steps (_going to the kitchens,_ he said, but he could as well jump off a cliff for all Jaime cares), and says: “Why are you sparring him?” His voice comes out slightly, slightly bitter.

“You sound quite jealous,” says Brienne, and stands up, sheathing her sword.

Jaime tries not to consider the symbolism, and fails. He snipes back. “Is there anything to be jealous _about? _Are you going to marry him?”

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“It was a simple question.”

She sighs, and sits back down — a bit closer to Jaime this time. “Bronn is a good friend and a decent man. He is titled enough not to cause talk at home, young enough to give me heirs, and he doesn’t care one whit if I dress in men’s clothes and beat him at fighting. Why _shouldn’t_ I marry him?”

_Heirs_, huh. “So — so you are going back to Tarth. After this marriage.”

“I had hoped to return, at one time. Planned to do so.”

“Now?”

“Now,” says Brienne, “I think I will stay with my husband. Wherever he is.” She either blushes or develops a very rapid sunburn.

“You don’t seem the type to follow a man around,” Jaime says. “Has true love changed you already?” He sounds stupid. He _feels_ stupid. Dull and flat.

He’d assumed that even if Brienne married someone else (gods help her), she would stay _nearby_. He would still be able to he look at her and speak with her. Enjoy the gut-wrenching taste of failure every time they shared a _Good morning._

Stupid, stupid, he is stupid. Of _course_ she’ll go with her husband, out of an overblown sense of duty if nothing else, and anyway she’d need to keep working on those _heirs_ —

“It depends on the man.”

Jaime has been so consumed with his pining, self-pitying dreams that he’s nearly forgotten the trail of the conversation. “How so?”

“My husband might need me to protect him.”

Well, yes. Jaime supposes that Brienne _is_ better at fighting than Bronn. But it seems odd, too; he wouldn’t really place the sell-sword in the needs-to-be-protected category. That’s where he puts kittens and puppies and Tyrion (under certain circumstances), and the physically injured —

— like a one-handed knight?

Washed-up has-been, that knight. Incestuous king-killing prettyboy idiot.

The washed-up idiot clears his throat. “You’re not planning to marry _Tyrion_, are you?”

“No. Although I did speak to him recently. He had some interesting things to say on the topic of _marriage_ and _Lannisters_.”

“You spoke to him?”

“I had to speak to him, didn’t I. Since you couldn’t find your tongue.”

Jaime still cannot find it.

She’s unfair to expect these things of him. Cruel. He didn’t even _know_ he loved her, how could he know things like that? Not until she started going around with Bronn ...

“Is that a _Yes_, Jaime Lannister? Or do we have to get you drunk again?”

He shakes his head, slowly and with great weighty meaning, as he’s seen maesters do it. “No. No more drinking. A man needs a clear head and a firm — resolve, to get started on his heirs.”

Brienne smiles at him (at _him!!) _— and then he finally, finally gets to kiss her. Not on her cheek, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaime “I don’t love you! it’s pure coincidence that I want to die when you smile at someone else” Lannister, ladies and germs


End file.
